Ramon laughed joyously and slapped Mendez on the back.
“Is is not so, compadre? We do not fear the Tiger, eh?”
“Fear?” Mendez rumbled deep in his beard. “I fear no man. I am Mendez.”
“And thou art full of warm beer,” stated Pasquale, laughing loudly.
Mendez joined the laugh, even at his own expense, for Mendez was full of beer, which always makes him boastful, but not angry.
It was very hot in Santa Ynez, as I have said before, but that day it was oppressive. The very sky seemed to press down upon the earth. Even the cattle seemed to stand in silent wonder and did not eat.
The piñon pines on the high hills were as black blots against the sky-line, and the cañons seemed to send out faint whisperings to the hills and valleys. Perhaps the cañons knew and were telling that a storm was coming.
But no whispering was needed to tell us that the Storm God was preparing for a ride through the valley of the Santa Ynez. Long lines of cattle were winding their way off the hills, like great jointed serpents, seeking the shelter of the lowlands.
The little street of the village was deserted. Not a horse was tied at the hitch-racks. The bright colors of the adobe houses had faded in that queer light, and were now only a gray.
Gone were the laughing voices of the children, which had filled the street. Even the dogs were in hiding. It was as if a great calamity had fallen, although there was nothing—except fear and caution.